Unstoppable Forces
by dragonmentality
Summary: They developed Ariel into the greatest military mind in history. Then Elita-One brought them to their knees. Cybertron, pre-war.


They thought Elita-One had perished as a youngling.

No one had found a body, but no one had expected to. Not after the air raids, and the bomb runs, and the ground troops. The Empire had cut its way to the soul of Centauri-Tetrax without distinguishing who or what was in front of it.

After careful deliberation and analysis of the battle, they assumed that she was no longer a problem. The only heir to a dying line was extinguished, and the threat her family represented with it.

They believed Centauri-Tetrax would not be restored to its former glory. A Guardian would never walk the face of the planet again.

They were wrong.

Her alias was Ariel. As far as the Empire knew she had been part of a noble family until the first day of occupation. All her kin had died when their manor blew up. She'd only survived because she'd been attending the academy. The schools had gotten the warning first. They were the only ones that had the time to make it to the shelters.

And with one order given half the planet away, an entire generation became orphans.

Ariel was then picked up by a medic by the name of Ratchet. He was a Polyhexian mech that had found her on the battlefield. He loved her as his own creation as soon as he looked into her optics for the first time.

Most of that was true; it was what made it all believable. Andromeda, Elita's creator, had begged the medic to care for her eldest creation. She had seen the light of Primus in him as she lay dying on the rubble. He might answer her desperate call: protect the child half a million people were trying to kill.

Everything had already been taken care of, she'd promised. Logistics, finances, security, fallout plans. She begged and pleaded and cried for her child. She felt her bond slipping away as she came closer to the Well.

And Ratchet looked from the dying creator, and up at a femmling that stood stark still. She'd survived those terrifying breems where her world fell apart. But her creator wasn't going to. Every contingency had crumbled like dust as Andromeda's plating turned gray.

Andromeda had reached out to transfer a data packet. She plugged into Ratchet's systems, giving a burst of information. Gratitude and fear transferred across the connection. The medic was peripherally aware that a tear had dropped down his cheek. This death touched his spark as though he'd just graduated from his medical studies.

Elita was old enough to understand what had happened to her creator. She collapsed to the ground sobbing, screaming, crying out for Primus to grant a miracle and bring her back.

Ratchet approached the youngling slowly. When she didn't move, he picked her up, cradling her close and giving her some comfort of a warm frame and a steady spark. She clung to him instinctively, crying into his neck and did not think about what the future might bring. It could not be worse than what had just happened.

Inquiries were made when Ratchet stepped into the Empire's medbay carrying a Centauri-Tetraxian youngling. He lied about where he found her, he claimed he didn't know anything. He'd just found her in the rubble, near the body of her deceased creators. He spat that fact out, almost taking the tone of a traitor.

The intense focus on the youngling soon settled down. He told them her designation was Ariel. The logistics, as Andromeda had promised, were taken care of. Ratchet was only required to lie though his teeth, which he had no qualms with. The Empire had destroyed an entire city-state in the effort to dispose of her. He battled no conflicting loyalties, for he could not pledge himself to a cause that ended lives and bred misery due to unfounded fear of a child.

Because Ariel had already been removed from Centauri-Tetrax, she became a precious commodity. One that the Empire would not be giving up anytime soon. Ratchet was assured that there was a program for younglings like Ariel. She would be well-cared for and Ratchet need not worry for her future, much less involve himself in it.

But Ariel would not leave his side. Ratchet developed a smug sort of pride in that. The youngling preferred some young bachelor mech over an institution. Though Ratchet couldn't ever imagine why it would be the other way around.

She was allowed to move to Polyhex with Ratchet. He said he didn't mind looking after her, though they promised it would only be a temporary arrangement. He would be free from the burden soon.

That had given Ratchet the time to petition otherwise. It was time to prove that he could be an adequate guardian and Ariel would be taken care of until she was of age. But that had never been the concern. They wanted Ariel in Iacon, where they could influence her directly.

And all other options had been exhausted.

So they invaded his modest apartment in Polyhex while he was at work and Ariel had returned home from class. There had been a polite knock, and Ariel jumped at the sound but didn't move otherwise. Ratchet had told her not to open the door for anyone. He'd been anticipating something similar as their efforts had been fruitless and becoming more desperate.

"Ariel, sweetspark, could you please open the door?" The sweet voice of a femme called, and the youngling sent an emergency comm. to her guardian.

::Hide, Ariel,:: Ratchet instructed, but did not mask the fear in his voice. ::I'm coming home right now.::

"Ariel, dear?" The femme called again, still patient. Ariel didn't say anything, and made her way up the stairs without a sound, shaking as her spark clenched. She slipped under her berth; it was pressed against the wall and welded to the ground. The space underneath was too small for any averaged sized adult to reach under.

The entrance into the apartment burst open. Ariel gasped and crawled closer to the wall, covering her head with her arms and trying to stay quiet. The officials walked through the apartment, calling out her name as if it was a twisted game of hide and seek.

But she had been concentrating on not crying out, and loud venting cycles gave away her hiding place.

"Ariel, sweetspark, what are you doing under there?" The femme that had been talking to her earlier was laying on the ground. The signature blue optics of an Iaconinan illuminated the underside of the berth. "Come out so we may have a proper conversation."

"No," Ariel refused, her voice wobbling. It was the precursor to a sob.

"Now dear, we have been quite patient with you. This behavior is unacceptable. Come out from under there right now."

" _No_ ," Ariel insisted, now crying. "Ratchet told me to hide."

The femme made a tutting sound. "How irresponsible. You'll be better off without his care."

"Get away from me!" Ariel screamed, red optics blazing through tears.

The femme sighed and got up. "Get her." She ordered through gritted denta. The other two exposed heavy-duty saws from their subspace. The began cutting through the metal berth. Ariel covered her head and sobbed. They were going to take her away from her school and her guardian. They had already taken her creator and her home. Hadn't that been enough?

"What in Primus' name―" Ratchet skidded to a stop in front of his destroyed door. He didn't know they were that desperate. Then he registered the sound of saws in Ariel's bedroom.

The panic and the fear was unlike what he had ever felt. He'd performed surgeries where one misplaced scalpel cut had his patient flatlining. He'd looked death in the optics and realized he could be responsible for ending a life. This did not even compare. It did not even touch the abyss he stared into now, realizing he could lose the femmling and half his spark with her.

"Ariel!" He gasped taking the stairs three at a time. His spark pounded, his hands shook. He couldn't reach her fast enough. Each nanoklick felt like a vorn and a future with Ariel stolen away stretched out before him.

And then he was there, standing in the doorway of her room, watching a mech yank her up. Everything was a mess, knocked over or broken. Ariel was sobbing and screaming, wild with panic, terrified of these intruders. But she was across the room, and might as well been halfway across the planet.

"Let her go!" He roared, his vision turning red but so focused, so crystal clear. Defensive subroutines, which had been dormant for vorns, came online. He would hurt these Iaconians if he had to, he might have even hurt them to repay what they'd already done to Ariel.

"Medic Ratchet," the femme flustered. "She was alone. It's protocol to―"

He was done with their lies and their excuses. There was no justifiable reason to come into his home and harm a youngling under his care. "Let her go, and get out." His anger had settled to a deadly calm, the kind that was icy and left no mistake for intent. "Now."

They didn't move for a moment. They knew they had pushed too far. Ratchet would not tolerate the fear tactics they would use to prevent him from reporting this. They had failed their created a disaster while they were already being reviewed for misconduct.

"Now!" Ratchet yelled again, and they finally left. He followed them out. He stayed in the doorway until they were down the hall and out of sight. Ariel waiting at the top of the stairs for him.

Her left arm hung lower than it should have. The way she was holding her shoulder... They had dislocated the joint pulling her out from under the berth.

"Ariel," Ratchet vented in relief, kneeling in front of her. He pulled her into loose hug that wouldn't cause further damage to her arm. "Sweetspark, how badly did they hurt you?"

"I was scared I wouldn't see you again," she admitted, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. She hadn't mentioned the physical damage, nor did Ratchet expect her to. Centauri-Tetraxians had a whole host of interesting and unique programming. One such line of coding allowed them to ignore physical pain or discomfort during or after situations that induced high levels of stress.

"I will find you, if we ever get separated again. It will only be temporary," Ratchet wiped away her tears with a gentle hand. "Now, let me take a look at that shoulder."

The joint was almost completely unhinged, and at the least had popped out cleanly. It was a simple matter of adjusting a few wires and smaller gears. It was repulsive to perform this procedure when the injury was inflicted by the people that claimed to look out for Ariel's best interest.

It was no small wonder that Andromeda had fled Iacon with her creation all those vorns ago. Ratchet did not know what would happen to Ariel in Iacon, if they were capable of this in Polyhex. And they only saw her as a Centauri-Tetraxian, not the future Guardian they had meant to kill.

He glanced at the youngling's face from time to time. She'd been studying Ratchet's digits as they maneuvered around the small joint. She was surprised that she could not feel the painless brushes against her plating. She knew the sensation would fade, but it was uncomfortable for her processor to be so out of tune with her body.

Ratchet made a swift motion, and there was a small _pop_. The joint was reinserted with grace and without pain. An easy task for a medic as practiced as Ratchet.

The mech patted the plating, "there we go, good as new."

"Ratchet, why don't they stop?" She asked, her gaze focused on the ground in front of her. He could almost see the inner workings of her processor try to manage the trauma she'd just faced. It made her strangely calm once the ordeal had ended. It was not an uncommon response in younglings.

"I can't say for certain, sweetspark," Ratchet admitted. "But what I _do_ know, is that we'll always stick together. That will never change."

Tears welled up in her optics. She hadn't heard what he'd said. She'd registered the words but the meaning was lost. "Don't let them take me, Ratchet," she pleaded, stepping forward to hug the mech.

"Never, sweetspark," he promised, hugging her back and lifting her up as he stood. He looked down into the living area, where the door had been tossed to the side. He would have to alert maintenance, file a formal complaint with the Empire... but they could not stay. Not for the evening at least.

Ratchet smiled at the youngling snuggled in his arms. They would make a night out of it. He would take her to the local arcade, where there was specialty energon and games. Perhaps, he considered, they would go to Nova Cronum, the next city-state over. They weren't that far away, and Ariel loved the science center there.

Yes, he decided. Games tonight, a hotel room in Nova Cronum, and they would see the sights the city had to offer. She could even skip school.

It was vorns before Ariel and Ratchet were bothered by the Empire again. The peace with passing time had lulled Ratchet into a sense of security. Perhaps they could pull off having a quiet life in a quiet city-state. This strange pair, a Polyhexian medic and Centauri-Tetraxian youngling, odd as it may seem.

He did not know what the future had in store, but he fooled himself into thinking it was a long way off. There was time to deliberate and take things slowly until everything was figured out.

In the meantime, Ariel had been accepted to the Polyhexian Institute of Fine Arts. It was one of the most acclaimed schools on the planet for the subject area. She studied dance. It was the result of the strange phenomena that lay hidden in the coding of Centauri-Tetraxians.

Centauri-Tetraxians were a frametype that had evolved to survive war. They could not function at optimum levels without some sort of physical exertion. This particular line of code was dormant until younglings had entered their third frame. The consequences were astounding, and if ignored, were life-threatening.

Like the preparatory schools before, Ariel had not struggled to make friends. Ratchet always seemed to be inviting over this mechling or that femmling and their creators. The citizens of Polyhex did not invest themselves in politics as much as their Iaconian cousins, and were generally peaceful people that wanted to avoid conflict. They had not cared that Ariel was a Centauri-Tetraxian, even though she was potentially of warrior-class and that fact contradicted their nature. The other younglings saw a new friend, and the adults saw a child with a kind spark.

Ariel had actually proven to be quite popular amongst the Polyhexians. She was noticed because she as unique, and her demeanor made her a kind friend. She'd risen to the top of the social hierarchy despite expectation.

Her first term at the Institute, Ariel had received below-average marks in Introductory Art History I, average marks in Polyhexian History and Government, and excelled at Introduction to Dance and The Physics of Dance. Ratchet was not pleased with the lower marks. She claimed it was due to her inability to concentrate while sitting still in a classroom. But the youngling was enjoying herself and showed promise in other fields. And these grades did not determine the opportunities Ariel would have for the future.

As much as he would have liked to believe, her destiny had already been chosen by being created as a Guardian. And as long as the Empire had their optics on Ariel, they would be moving her as a pawn as if her life was a game. Ariel would not be able to choose anything for herself, even once she got rid of her alias.

It was a few vorns later that Ratchet's greatest fears came to a head. In that time, Ariel had seen another frame transfer. She was specializing in ballet; the most physically demanding form of dance the Institute had to offer. Ratchet had risen in the hierarchy of his hospital and oversaw an entire wing of the building.

It had seemed innocent enough, the first warning. It was not as ominous as he was expecting. Ariel burst through the door of the apartment, laughing with a group of friends. She hugged Ratchet, kissed him on the cheek, slapped a small datapad into her guardian's hand before running upstairs to her room with her friends.

He watched them go, the presence of a group of happy younglings making the apartment seem brighter. He smiled, activating the datapad. It was a notice of Compulsory Military Aptitude Testing that would be taking place in a decaorn. Ratchet signed it without second thought, unaware it was the beginning of the end.

The decaorn came and went, and the younglings fidgeted in their seats of the auditorium. They talked amongst themselves, mostly in derision. The resources used for this test to be conducted at an Institute of Arts was was the Empire expecting to find here, of all places? Rumor circled that there had once been a student that had moved onto the second round of testing, and that had been a decavorn ago and accomplished by the creation of a military commander.

Ariel laughed with her group of friends, cracking jokes about the handful of mechs and femmes that stood at a stiff parade rest on the stage. No one in the entire school had bothered preparing for the test. They would be attending a military academy if that was their desired field. Half a world away, students of the same age sat in silence, desperate to cram any single piece of information that might let them pass onto the next round.

Precisely on the joor, a mech stepped forward and began explaining the process to the younglings. They would be assigned to different classrooms to take the exams. They could use any programming they'd written or was approved. If too many questions were missed, the screen of a testing datapad would flash red and they would turn it in. If any student passed within the parameters specified, they would keep answering questions until their screen flashed green. They would report directly to a proctor sent by the Empire.

No one knew how many questions there were. The program was meant to tailor itself to the individual taking the exam to best determine the weaknesses and strengths of that individual. No one expected the proctoring to take long. The vast majority of the students at the Institute would be sent home within a half joor of recieving the exam.

Ariel filed into a classroom with ten other students, handed a datapad and told to wait. Once every student had settled in and the proctors had coordinated themselves, they began.

It took only a quarter joor for the first few students to turn in their datapad, free to spend the rest of the orn as they wished. Another half joor passed, only Ariel and two other students remained.

Ariel hadn't registered the exits of her fellow peers, too engrossed in the task at hand. Too enthralled as the data washed through her processors. Coding came to life, never having been accessed before.

As typical of standardized exams, the beginning questions were the easiest to answer. True or false, multiple choice. They made sense, despite her complete lack of military education. At least she thought they did.

But not once did she worry about the flashing red screen. She pondered each question, reasoned through it to her ability. And if she did not pass as she was expected, then it reflected the system, not her ability as a student.

The proctors were surprised that a single youngling remained in the classroom, taking the exam. It was more or less an orn off for the instructors at the Institute. Those sent by the Empire to schools that had typically lower passing rates had the most seniority. It was a vornly duty, but less strenuous where the majority of those taking the exams were not expected to pass.

The instructor checked her internal chronometer, surprised they had made it even this far. "Ariel, it's time for a break."

The youngling did not so much as glance up. Her helm rested on her palm as she wrote down a solution to the question in front of her. "Ariel," the instructor repeated again, louder but not angry. "Ariel, dear. You must take a break."

There was still no response. The instructor glanced up at warrior-class military mech. "I don't― She usually―" Then she shook her head. She didn't have to explain her own student's behavior to a stranger. She moved as if to interrupt the youngling.

"No," the mech waved her down, optics tightening in curiosity. "Let's see what she does." The instructor backed down, but watched her student with worry.

Ariel never heard the exchange.

It took only four more breems for the mech t0 give into his curiosity. He pulled a master datapad out of subspace. It allowed him to access exam scores as the exam was being taken. He entered Ariel's student identification number.

The results were surprising. Not astonishing, but certainly not expected.

Her current scores indicated some success. She was consistently answering at least seventy percent of the questions correctly. She was placed in a high percentile in categories that were defined as "foundational knowledge". These tended to be basic and simpler in nature. Lack of competency in these areas was what disqualified most students.

Her percentile in other areas was less favorable. These categories, in a sense, were considered "forgivable." They were less based on reasoning and logical processing through military action. Instead, they emphasized what should have already been taught at the appropriate institutions.

The military academies were willing to invest extra time and resources in students that displayed promise in other areas. It involved more exams and evaluations, and was overall less efficient, yet the Empire still used it for recruitment.

It was a direct result of Andromeda fleeing Iacon and declaring Centauri-Tetrax independent of the Empire. The Empire found themselves the target of a formidable enemy and their forces devastated.

Centauri-Tetraxians had once made up half of the military forces. When allegiances changed they followed Andromeda. Loyalty was valued above all else, and they had not pledged themselves to Sentinel Prime.

Iacon was facing war with weakened forces. Though Andromeda kept her people within the confines of the borders, the damage had been done. Politicians wielded fear as a weapon. Soon every city-state turned away from Andromeda though she'd only ever intended to protect her people.

It took thousands of vorns for the Empire to match the military capabilities of Centauri-Tetrax. Recruiting tactics became more creative and effective. Weapons systems more powerful and devastating.

The first orn of the Empire's occupation of Centauri-Tetrax did not end the war hysteria. The Quintessons were still threat, killing Cybertronian civilians and seizing trading ships. There were whispers that Andromeda was still alive. Or that there was a terrorist group hell bent on defying the Empire.

So they still recruited, still searched for the best and the brightest wherever they might be. Spokespeople for the Empire claimed the measures were meant to strengthen Cybertronian defense against the Quintessons. It was a legitimate claim. But that strength was still being used to grind Centauri-Tetrax into submission.

Yet they were the more resilient of the frametypes. While Centauri-Tetrax had been occupied for vorns now, it had never truly been seized.

Ariel blinked when the screen flashed green. Then her optic ridges furrowed, and she picked up the datapad to examine it for damage.

"Um," she started, realizing she hadn't known what she was planning on saying. Her instructor looked worried. The military mech looked both impressed and somewhat entertained by the youngling's confusion.

 _If your screen flashes green, you will report to a proctor sent by the Empire._

Ariel glanced up and swallowed. The mech seemed to be five kilometers away, not five meters. And the walk there was not an accomplishment. It somehow felt like a death sentence.

Ariel stood from her seat, feeling light-headed. She gripped the edges of the desk when she wavered. She shook it off, assuming it was the shock of actually passing. The warning that her fuel levels had sunk to twenty-five percent had not registered.

She grabbed the datapad and stepped forward. Ariel fell, already slapped into stasis-lock by her own systems before she hit the floor.

A joor later found her in the medbay, her concerned guardian leaning over her. "Ariel, wake up, sweetspark," the youngling's optics shuttered. Ratchet ran a hand over her head. "There you go."

"Ratchet?" She asked, bewildered. Why was her guardian at the Institute?

"Careful of the fuel lines," Ratchet warned, readjusting the one stuck into the joint of her left arm. "Your tanks were so low that you went into stasis-lock."

"I didn't have my cube this morning but I'm usually okay," Ariel yawned. Then as all younglings, she was distracted by another thought. "I passed the exam. People said it was going to be hard, but it wasn't."

Externally, Ratchet was the picture of calm. His spark, however, had gone cold with dread. Ariel had passed the exam, and she was Centauri-Tetraxian. And a warframe. And naturally adept at what they would want her for. The Empire was never going to give that opportunity up.

"I'm proud of you, Ariel," Ratchet smiled, squeezing the youngling's hand. And he was, but this opened up an entirely different pathway of what he expected his charge to take. It was not one he could protect her from. But there was no point in alarming her.

But there was something else he needed to address. "Ariel, did you have any energon today?"

Ariel shook her head in a tired no, trying to get comfortable enough on the medical berth to recharge a bit more. Ratchet stood and kissed her helm. "I'll be back in a bit, little one." And Ratchet stalked out of the medical suite, ready to threaten whomever was accountable with charges of negligence.

The Institute's instructor that had proctored Ariel's exam wasted no time in telling the dean and Ratchet that the military proctor she was paired with had insisted on not interrupting Ariel when it came time to refuel. The dean sent a complaint through the proper channels, and when it reached the mech, his answer was "I wanted to see what would happen."

His supervisors had been pleased with whatever data he'd been able to gather. No consequence came of it.

Ratchet returned home that evening with an exhausted youngling. She was promptly put in her berth and allowed to recharge for as long as she needed to. The results of the medical tests indicated that there were parts of her processor and lines of coding that had been stretched to the maximum. They had never been used and were suddenly relied upon for over three joors. The added stressor of not having the appropriate amount of fuel resulted in a discharge order of lengthy berthrest.

Over a period of three orns, Ratchet only woke his charge to give her medical-grade energon. She barely moved as she recharged. Her plating didn't even shift with her light venting cycles.

For her credit, Ariel was doing a fantastic impression of a corpse. As a medic, Ratchet knew that she was fine, well cared for and not even close to joining the Well. That assurance could not quell his panic as a guardian when she looked as if she was dead when he walked into her room. Ratchet would scan for vital statistics to satiate the appropriate coding. It still left him shaken afterwards.

It was during those few orns that things began to change. Ratchet was informed that an instructor would be assigned to Ariel in order to catch her up on material. They would be better able to gauge her potential for a military career. He'd insisted he didn't approve, and that his charge would be doing no such thing.

The Empire insisted that Ariel would be removed from her current environment. That is, if her guardian continued to display inability to provide his charge with access to opportunity. That, in the end, was what made Ratchet give up his one-mech fight. He liked to believe that she would be better off with him than alone, and he had a promise he always meant to keep.

Ariel was impervious to the outside world, coding onlining and finding its place. Periphery battle and tactical systems came on line for the first time. All while her processor cycled through dream after dream.

Sometimes she was being held by her carrier as they sat in the Guardian Estate's crystal gardens. Or she and Ratchet were playing games at the arcade, and they were both laughing and she'd never been happier. And everything felt complete. She was too young to understand how much she didn't know about the world.

The last dream was what she would remember for vorns. The setting was the most distinctive; a battlefield. The air was thick with smoke, and the ground stained with energon. Rubble and debris made it hard to walk but she did anyway.

She heard someone else, small pieces of debris crunching under large peds. She saw an outline of his figure through the smoke. When he walked two steps closer, she could make him out in detail.

He was tall, much taller than Ratchet. He was a warrior, adorned with thick red and blue plating and a large gun hanging off his back. Though everything about him was threatening, his stature, his weapons, and the way deep blue optics peered over a thick battle mask, Ariel did not feel fear.

She hadn't registered on his scanners, because she was not really there. But he could still see her, and she had the wrong colored optics.

He'd already pulled his gun, ready to fire at the minicon until he registered she was, in fact, a youngling.

Ariel furrowed her optic ridges but otherwise did not move. For whatever reason, deep in her spark, she knew he would not harm her

The mech dropped to his knee, placing the gun back in subspace. The battle mask retracted. He was not a mech she'd ever met before. Those blue optics burned with sadness.

"Who are you?" Ariel asked quietly.

"Optimus Prime," the mech answered, in a voice that felt like home.


End file.
